


Every Little Thing He Does

by CitrusVanille



Series: Barefoot in the Kitchen [1]
Category: McFly
Genre: Accidents, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-14
Updated: 2008-07-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Dougie, barefoot, in shorts and a tee-shirt, is standing at the counter, surrounded by spilled ingredients, dirty dishes, and broken glass.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Little Thing He Does

**Author's Note:**

> The cast of one of the shows I'm working on are an interesting lot, and one of the guys said something about one of the women's characters being 'barefoot in the kitchen' (which, of course, resulted in a bit of a spat). The creaky cogs in my brain started to turn, and this is what came of it.

When Tom jerks awake on Sunday morning he twists automatically towards his bedside table to hit his alarm clock. Only the alarm isn’t going off. His sleep-logged brain can’t quite register more than ‘that’s not right.’

He groans and flops over onto his back, arm over his face, trying to force his thoughts into some sort of order. He’s pretty sure something woke him up. A noise. If it wasn’t his alarm – which he can’t actually remember setting, now he thinks about it – and it clearly wasn’t, it must have been a bang from a car backfiring, or maybe a –

_CRASH!_

Tom is tumbling out of bed and towards the door before he’s even made the decision to move. Halfway down the stairs he hears the unmistakable sound of cursing coming from the kitchen.

Fuck, Tom thinks, and jumps the bottom three stairs in his haste, barreling towards that familiar voice. And, “Fuck,” he says aloud, stopping dead in the kitchen doorway at the sight that greets him.

Dougie, barefoot, in shorts and a tee-shirt, is standing at the counter, surrounded by spilled ingredients, dirty dishes, and broken glass. He’s got his right palm against his mouth, half muffling his voice.

“Are you okay?” Tom wants to ask, but it comes out, “What the fuck is going on here?”

Dougie spins to face him, slips, grabs at the counter for balance with the hand he’d had in his mouth, gasps a scream – jerking the hand back against his chest – and goes down, landing hard with an audible _thud_ on the linoleum.

Tom is already halfway across the room, trying to avoid what looks like egg and flour all over the floor. “Fuck, are you okay?” he asks, and this time it comes out that way.

Dougie’s bottom lip is trapped between his teeth and his eyes are clenched tightly, his entire face screwed up in pain. Clearly, he is not okay. He nods jerkily.

“Fuck,” Tom says again, and, without thinking about it, scoops Dougie up into his arms – wincing himself at the gasp of pain the jolting movement elicits from Dougie – and carries him carefully out of the kitchen and into the living room, setting him down on the sofa. “Let me see your hand.”

Dougie bites his lip harder, clutching his right hand even closer to his chest with his left.

“Doug –” Tom takes one of his wrists in each hand, trying to coax him into letting go.

“‘m fine,” Dougie grits out, but Tom can see the whiteness of his skin under his tan.

“You are not fine,” he insists. “Let me see.”

After a long moment, Dougie reluctantly lets Tom take his right hand, and Tom’s stomach goes queasy at the sight of his sliced palm.

“Don’t move,” Tom tells him, rising.

“Where are you going?” Dougie asks, and his voice has gone a little higher than usual.

“To get some disinfectant and gauze,” Tom calls over his shoulder, making a beeline for the medicine cabinet. It takes him only seconds to find what he’s looking for, and then he’s back on the couch, cradling Dougie’s hand in both of his, telling himself that the sight of blood has never bothered him before, and this is a bad time for it to start. It’s not even that bad a cut, despite the fact that it looks quite painful. But this is _Dougie_ and _Dougie’s_ blood, and his mind is irrationally flailing and shrieking about hospitals and stitches and tetanus.

“This might hurt,” he says, gripping Dougie’s wrist firmly in one hand as he applies the disinfectant with the other, holding Dougie’s hand still as his whole arm jerks at the sting.

“Fuck,” Dougie hisses through his teeth, and tries to hold steady as Tom cleans the cut.

“What did you cut it on?” Tom asks, trying to be careful. It doesn’t look like there are any glass shards, but he doesn’t want to take any chances.

“Knife,” Dougie replies tersely, and Tom can feel the tension in his arm as Dougie forces himself not to flinch every time Tom touches his hand.

Tom nods and picks up the gauze to start bandaging the cut. “And what were you doing with a knife in my kitchen on a Sunday morning?” he inquires, as much to know the answer as to distract Dougie from the pain.

Dougie mutters something Tom doesn’t quite catch, and when he looks up he can see that Dougie has turned pink and is looking awkward, despite the strain in his face.

“What?” Tom asks, and Dougie’s flush deepens.

“I wanted to make you breakfast in bed,” he says, and then his whole arm jumps in Tom’s grip and he swears loudly as Tom pulls the makeshift bandage tight.

“Sorry,” Tom says, and runs his fingers softly over the back of Dougie’s hand, caressing the knuckles. Then, as Dougie’s words sink in, “You wanted to make me breakfast in bed?”

Dougie bites his lip and nods.

“Um.” Tom isn’t quite sure what to say to that. “Why?”

Dougie shrugs. “I wanted to surprise you,” he says. “You cook for me all the time. So I thought.” He stops and chews on his lip again for a moment, then admits, “I asked Mum how to make pancakes. I got up early to go to the store and everything.”

“You asked your mum how to make pancakes,” Tom echoes.

Dougie gives him a lopsided grin. “I even found my key so I wouldn’t have to wake you up to get in.”

“You could have just slept here, last night,” Tom tells him, head still reeling a bit. Dougie’s never really been the romantic type, and breakfast in bed on a Sunday morning definitely qualifies as romantic, in Tom’s book. Right up there with moonlit walks and hearts drawn on the fogged-over mirror while he’s in the shower.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Dougie repeats. “And I didn’t want to wake you up sneaking out of bed.”

“So you woke me up blowing up my kitchen,” Tom says, and instantly regrets it as Dougie’s face falls.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, and stares at his bandaged hand.

“I didn’t mean that –” Tom tries, then stops, because he kind of did. He just didn’t mean it in an angry way. “Hey, look at me,” he says, and tilts Dougie’s chin up with two fingers. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Dougie just stares at him, as woebegone as a scolded puppy, and Tom sighs.

“Tell you what,” he says. “Why don’t you come talk to me while I clean up the kitchen, and then I can make us some pancakes, and we can both have breakfast in bed. How does that sound?”

Dougie’s face brightens a bit in what might be hope. “You’re not upset?”

Tom barely manages not to roll his eyes. “That may change when I’ve assessed the damage to my kitchen,” he teases, “but, at the moment, no, I’m not upset.”

“Really?”

Tom can’t help but grin at the look on Dougie’s face. “Really,” he assures him, then admits, “it was kind of a sweet idea, actually.” His grin widens as Dougie ducks his head, flushing again.

“Come on,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Dougie’s hair. “Let’s go see what we can salvage of my kitchen.”

**END**


End file.
